


while the other survives

by Buttercup_ghost



Series: the subjectivity of the matter of truth [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Alternate Character Interpretation, Analysis, Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Character Study, Drabble, Fear, Fear of Death, Gen, I dunno?, I guess???, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Prophecy, along w a few other things but I liked this one the best, apparently this was written on july 6. neat, found this in my docs and I gotta say I hardly remember writing it, so canon Dursley family basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 22:31:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: To live life with death looming over you wasn’t to live life at all..Harry, Tom, the differences between them - and a prophecy.





	while the other survives

Prophecies, are fickle things. Abstract phrases, so hard to interpret correctly, never happening like you think they would. They only ever made sense in hindsight, and even then, ambiguity seeped through the corners, a saturated grey, the color of unanswered questions. Like everything, it was uncertain, bendable where it should be firm.

Harry was never afraid of dying. Over and over, he stared it down unflinchingly. For the family he found, for the world that never cared, he continued to face it, continued to wonder how long he’d get lucky. He had brushed hands with death, knew how cold it felt, and counted down the days to where he’d succumb to it, its arms fully embracing him.

Death had been following him since he was one, since he first looked upon a mad man surrounded by a sickly green, striking down his mother without mercy. It was an old friend; he was just wondering when he’d greet it.

He had never been afraid to die. Maybe it was something that was beat into him, with his uncles fat fists, or his aunts sizzling iron pan. He didn’t _ want _ to die, but he had long stopped being afraid to, long stopped the fear that bubbled up like acid. He was wary, he was tired, he was bitter. But he wasn’t afraid. He grew up with death. It was a childhood friend, when he had no one else to call one.

Tom had always been afraid.

Death stalked him at every corner, every turn. One wrong move could mean the roof caving in, the bombs from a petty muggle war doing him in. Death is what took away his only friends: the snakes that would hiss words of encouragement in his palm, treat him with dignity so different than the scorn or pity of everyone else. Death was what was waiting for him if he didn’t measure his words, didn’t appear like the well breed pureblood he wasn’t, what would happen if his allies—_pawns—_realized, turning on him without any sense of loyalty. Slytherins were smart, but ultimately, self serving; they only followed him because their goals and beliefs aligned with the vision he had, the message he projected. He could only trust that: could only trust in the selfishness of humanity.

Where harry had seen kindness in people’s eyes—_a teacher that let him have extra servings at lunch, a kid who stood up to Dursley, a stray dog that licked the cut on his hand—_all Tom had saw was pity. Pity, as if he needed something so degrading, as if he couldn’t handle everything on his own, as if he was weak.

On nights, with empty stomachs and sick-riddened minds, Tom and Harry had both thought, _ this is when death catches up_. One was afraid, one was accepting. _ I still haven’t done enough, _ and, _ maybe the afterlife will be better. _It was written, etched, onto their souls.

So similar, and yet so, _so_ different. 

To live life with death looming over you wasn’t to live life at all. 

And prophecies are fickle things.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean, what interpretation was correct? Was there even a correct one?

As long as Tom chased him, looking to end his life, looking to push him into the final embrace—and wouldn’t that be a thing, to finally, finally get a hug? To finally, finally _rest?_—harry could not live. Because of Toms pursuit, he was stuck in a house devoid of care, stuck in a cupboard of cobwebs and forgotten things, tucked away like he was something unseemly. Stuck like that, within the protection of his mom’s blood, until Tom’s last bell toiled. Unmoving, life at a standstill, unable to grow within a nonexistent childhood.

And Tom would continue to chase, until Harry was dead. Because if he didn’t, he knew death would catch _him_, trap him in its icy grip, after so many years of running. And he couldn’t allow that, he couldn’t slow down because if he did it meant it was over, it was all over, and he’d never be _ safe _ until Harry was dead. 

It was Limbo.

Two nonlifes, guns drawn, pointed at each other. It was just a matter of who’s bullet would reach first.

The same. Two sides of the same coin, mirrored pasts reflected back at them. 

But there were too many differences to count, too.

Tom had been afraid all his life. So very, very afraid. 

Harry grew out of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Prophecies are weird to think about, honestly


End file.
